


let me lay waste to thee

by postcardmystery



Series: the gold boys of the golden age [1]
Category: Historical RPF
Genre: M/M, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:24:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postcardmystery/pseuds/postcardmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ink stained fingers and ale left untouched. The cheapest paper left to rot and cuffs stained with little spots of black. A life shared but never quite lived together. A boy who wanted to be a poet, remembered as a playwright, and a boy who wanted to stage, remembered for his blood on a dagger held by no one.</p><p>In this play, the play of life, we do not always get what we want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let me lay waste to thee

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for violence and murder.

"Kit," he says, throat working, eyes glazed, "Kit, I-- I shall never be able to best this."  
  
" _So march away, and let due praise be given_ ," come the words from the stage, " _neither to Fate nor Fortune, but to Heaven_."  
  
"That was rather my intention," says Kit, that infernal smirk working, and, in the gods, the cheering starts.  


  
  
  
Ink stained fingers and ale left untouched. The cheapest paper left to rot and cuffs stained with little spots of black. A life shared but never quite lived together. A boy who wanted to be a poet, remembered as a playwright, and a boy who wanted to stage, remembered for his blood on a dagger held by no one.  
  
In this play, the play of life, we do not always get what we want.  


  
  
  
"These are my players," says Kit, and Will narrows his eyes, says, "A filthier pack of dogs never have I seen."  
  
"Better than yours, by far," says Kit, and Will laughs, says, "A company made of three, I've got, thus far. Give me time, Marlowe, and we shall see who gets queen-touched."  
  
"Aye," says Kit, that smile dancing, "we shall."  


  
  
  
A queen's patronage does not come cheap, and nor does ink. Kit writes until his candles burn out, their wicks long gone. Will fucks tavern girls and other people's players. Kit runs from cuckolded merchants and fucks lawyer's sons. Will scratches quill over paper until his fingers bleed, and then, then he's found something to match him.  


  
  
  
" _Since I cannot prove a lover_?" says Kit, eyebrow raised at an angle made to mock, "Is there some ailment of which you have not told me, William?"  
  
"Yes," says Will, snatching the parchment back, "you are very clever. Begone, I am working yet tonight."  
  
"No," says Kit, leaning down, his chin on Will's shoulder, "you are to come carouse with me. Shall we go and mock the vain efforts of others? You are always so very riled at that.  _I am determined to prove a villain_ , my friend."  
  
"Oh, so you  _did_  read it, you--" says Will, and Kit pulls the quill from his hand, laughing, says, "Of course I did. Get your boots on and I shall tell you what I thought of it."  
  
"No, you won't," says Will, and Kit nods, says, "Not until I'm good and pissed. Know me too well, you do, Will."  
  
"It is tragic, it is true," says Will, and then Kit throws his boot at him, and that's the end of that.  


  
  
  
Every tavern on the bank knows them; would have their names on a list if reading was any barkeep's strong suit.  
  
"But how will it end?" says Kit, jabbing a shaking finger into Will's wrist.  
  
"How will what end?" says Will, trying to focus on anything other than the heat of Kit flush against his side.  
  
"Your  _Richard_ , you fool," says Kit, and Will slumps against Kit's shoulder, sighs, says, "With the usual, I should expect. A speech, a spy, a murder."  
  
"And a battle lost," says Kit, brown eyes much too hot for a tankard of ale with your friend on a cold Tuesday night, and Will swallows, repeats, "Aye, a battle lost."  
  


  
  
 _To leave this keen encounter of our wits_ , writes Will, his eyes bloodshot and his hand still shaking, bathed in the weak light of an early London morning. He only sees Kit's face, when he lets his eyes close, for a second, and nothing more.  
  


  
  
"I'm writing a new play," shouts Kit, momentarily stopping his barrage of knocking.  
  
" _No_ ," shouts Will, pauses, then, "a  _duel_ , Kit!"  
  
Kit kicks at the locked door and laughs, says, "It has been an entire week, my friend. This wronged wife act is much unmanly."  
  
"You almost had me dead, Marlowe," says Will, slumping against the door, "and by a candle-stick maker, no less."  
  
"Not at all," says Kit, his tone only a little wheedling, "my money was on you and your Spanish steel the whole fight."  
  
" _Bastard_ ," says Will, banging his head back against the door, "what is this horseshit piece of yours called, then?  _Alas, I Am A Cuckolding Rakehell, None Love Me, Not At All_?  
  
"No," says Kit, his voice transformed, the way it only ever is when his eyes shine, " _Faustus_."

  
  
  
  
Many things are whispered of Kit Marlowe, the Cambridge man, the man who threw it all away. Will has heard them all, and believes none; Kit the spy, Kit the Catholic, Kit, the man with blood on his hands and a knife forever in his belt. (Well. The very last of that may be true.)  
  
Many things are whispered of Kit Marlowe, but it is the things that Will does not whisper, but hold close, that he believes well. But, but, Kit is Kit and Will is Will, and ink, ink is not enough.  
  


  
  
"That one  _begged_  me to hold him down," whispers Kit, his eyes roving over an Earl come to watch Will's  _Henry VI_ , and Will shoves him off, hisses, "Is 'decorum' a word missing from your erstwhile impressive vocabulary? Be quiet, my words are of more import than yours at this moment."  
  
"No," says Kit, his hand snaking down over Will's breeches, "they are not."  
  
"Kit--" says Will, his eyes narrowed, and Kit leans back, and says, with false solemnity, "But of course, William, we shall wait 'til the play's done. A mere two hours, now, am I telling it true?"  
  
"Backstage," says Will, his fingers pressing bruises into Kit's thigh as Kit grins, " _now_."  


  
  
  
They knock powder from tables and ignore the smirks of the dressers; Will presses his hand over the stage manager's mouth and Edmund, being Edmund, still manages to paint lewd pictures with just his eyebrows. One of the seamstresses begins to giggle, and Will goes a particularly stunning shade of puce as he drops Edmund, and Edmund opens his mouth to say--  
  
"Shove it up your arse," announces Kit, and drags Will away, his fingers grasped in the back of Will's jacket.

  
  
  
  
Kit tosses Will into a dressing cupboard and has him up against the door in seconds, hands pawing at Will's throat, his mouth hot and desperate on Will's collarbone.  
  
"You have yet to kiss me, Kit," says Will, his breath catching as Kit draws back and says, his voice hoarse, "You do find me guilty always, Will."  
  
“That is because you invariably  _are_ ,” says Will, and Kit presses his knee upwards into Will’s cock, says, “How about now, William, how about  _now_?”  
  
“You’re  _acting_ , Kit,” says Will, his tone harsh with accusation, and Kit gives him the smirk that means,  _prevent me, William_.  
  
“Let us strip you of that,” says Will, and shoves his hand inside Kit’s breeches.  
  
“God’s  _teeth_ ,” groans Kit, his teeth sliding into his lip, “where, where did you--”  
  
“It is so entirely  _you_ , Kit, to think yourself the only one to have fucked an Earl,” says Will, chuckling, and  _twists_  his hand, whispers, “but are you not glad that I did?”  
  
Kit, his hands digging into Will’s hair, his body heavy and shaking on top of Will’s, can do nothing but nod, can do nothing but shake harder as Will’s hand tightens around him, as Will bites kisses into his neck that no powder will be able to hide.  
  
“You, I,” says Kit, mouthing at Will’s neck, reaching down, pressing the heel of his hand against Will’s cock, painfully hard beneath his hand, and Will grabs his wrist, says, “ _Yes_. But not here.”  


 

  
“Not a word,” says Kit, as Edmund smirks at their passing, says, “S’an Earl, ‘ere, or says ‘e is, who wants to see yer, Mister Marlowe.”  
  
“I am, regrettably, engaged,” says Kit, imperious, his hand in the crook of Will’s elbow, and Will only blushes a little.  


  
  
  
“Do you know what this is?” says Kit, his bedroom door locked and Will sitting on the end of his bed, pulling his boots off, his eyes wide with want.  
  
“I am able to make my own conclusions,” says Will, looking down and flushing, and Kit grins, says, “Then are you able to hazard what I am to do with it?”  
  
Will watches Kit spread the oil over his fingers, whispers, “Yes.”  
  
“Then get those damn clothes off, man,” says Kit, and laughs as Will moves much too fast to obey him.  
  
“Will you not undress yourself?” says Will, naked, his skin pale in the candlelight, and Kit says, “Are the loss of my breeches and my boots not enough for you, sir? No, I shall leave my shirt on yet.”  
  
Will opens his mouth to protest and Kit clambers on top of him, presses his left hand into Will’s hip and says, “Spread your legs, Will. I would do my worst.”  
  
Will nods, and does, gasps as Kit pushes the first finger in, his back arching, his skin hot through the thin material of Kit’s shirt.  
  
“I do think I could do this for hours,” says Kit, curling his index finger, “they say that the most bittersweet of pleasure is that which never ends.”  
  
Will, his eyes barely open, manages, “That sounds much like torture to me, Kit--”  
  
“Oh, I promise you,” says Kit, kissing sloppily down Will’s chest, “you shall eke out nothing but pleasure from your pain, if I will it so.”  
  
“And do you?” says Will, and Kit raises his eyebrow, smirks, and closes his mouth around Will’s cock.  
  


  
  
Kit keeps his promise; Will writhes beneath him for hours before he’s fucked, and when fucked he moans filthy nothings in Kit’s ear, scratches Kit’s back until it’s raw and bleeding, begs and threatens in equal measure.  
  
When done, he turns to Kit and says, the smile that means Kit’s measure’s made playing on his lips, “I wager you will scream twice as much as me turned about, Kit. Oh, tomorrows.”  


  
  
  
Will only limps a little in the morning, and bears the teasing of his players lightly. After all, he has a play to write, and the King Richard, he will not stop his whispers in his ears.  
  


  
  
“War wound?” says Kit, smile mocking in the dark of the tavern, and Will raises an eyebrow, says, “One I shall return in kind. But not tonight.”  
  
Kit’s face only shows naked for a second before it rearranges itself, and Will sighs, says, fond, “ _No_ , Marlowe. Don’t be foolish. The words are itching once more.”  
  
“Ah,” says Kit, nodding, “caught beneath the skin like gilt-edged butterflies. I know it well, wish I didn’t.”  
  
“Acting, again,” says Will, and Kit smiles the smile of the liar caught.  
  
“You shall have to let me read it on the morrow,” he says, leaning forward, so only Will can hear his words, “preferably in your bed.”  
  
“Believe what you like,” says Will, standing up, and Kit laughs, says, “I shall. I will call on you tomorrow night, Will. Have words for me or pay the penalty.”  
  
“I assure you, I am not afraid,” says Will, pulling on his doublet, and Kit’s eyes shine dark as he says, “Well, you are young. You’ll learn, no doubt.”  


  
  
  
The words do itch, he did not lie.  
  
 _So wise, so young, they say, do never live long,_  he writes, and shudders.  


  
  
  
It’s raining in the morning, the skies grey and the streets turned to mud. If there’s a play tonight, it’ll be grim for those in the pit. Kit is leaning outside the door when Will opens it, his boots already dark with dirt.  
  
“You promised me words,” says Kit, pushing Will back inside, and Will, his eyes bleary, says, “I promised you naught. Hands off me, Kit, I have not slept this night.”  
  
“I should hope not,” says Kit, that eyebrow mocking him again, “so may I press you into bed once more, William?”  
  
“Only if I may keep my eyes shut,” mutters Will, and Kit steps in close, says, “I remember them closed on the last, Will.”  
  
Will shudders for the second time in ten hours, says, “I would fall into sleep before you got your boots off. Let me sleep, write yourself, wake me when you stop.”  
  
“This does not sound like our deal,” says Kit, and Will snorts, says, “Oh, I am so very sorry. Do try to be quiet, did you know you say the lines as you write them? It is intolerable.”  
  
“I see it is to my advantage to let you sleep,” says Kit, hurriedly, and Will grins, says, “Have this as a promise, and a seal to our covenant.”  
  
Will’s mouth is still a little desperate, despite exhaustion, and when he pulls back he puts his hand on Kit’s shoulder, pushes back his seeking lips, says, “No. Eight hours, then I’m yours.”  
  
“Yes,” says Kit, the quill already in his hand, “I know.”  
  


  
  
Will dreams of fire and of battles lost. The bad King Richard whispers to him once more, and Will burns, burns, burns.  
  
“You stole your crown,” says Will, the words he will never be permitted to write, and Henry glances to the crown that hangs on that bloody bush, says, “As will you.”  
  


  
  
“I’m bored, William,” Will hears Kit say, followed by a hand snaking beneath his blanket.  
  
“Words,” says Will, half-awake, and Kit lies down beside him, his breath hot on Will’s cheek, says, “Oh, if you  _must_.”  
  
“You merely watched me sleep and played with yourself, did you not?” says Will, sitting up and elbowing Kit off him, the echo of the games they used to play before-- before.  
  
“I must admit, it forced the first hour past at quite a pace,” says Kit, smirking, drawing out a smile from Will, “but I did, indeed, write as commanded.”  
  
“Let us hear it then,” says Will, angling his head away from Kit’s hungry mouth, “as you will paw at me, yet.”  
  
“If it is the price I must pay,” says Kit, pushing his head into the curve of Will’s neck, “they I shall pay it gladly.”  
  
Kit’s hand draws lazy circles on Will’s thigh and Will sighs, says, “Impress me, then. I know you are  _itching_  to.”  
  
“ _If we say that we have no sin_ ,” whispers Kit, hand waving languidly, then rolls Will onto his back, his knees pinning Will’s hips down, and leans in, continues, “ _we deceive ourselves, and there is no truth in us_.”  
  
“Continue,” says Will, his eyes still bloodshot, his pupils blown, and Kit grins before he pulls his shirt over his head, intones, “ _We must sin_.”  


  
  
  
Will, if he were a betting man, (and oh, he  _is_ ), would win his wager; Kit  _does_  make more noise.  


  
  
  
“I must be gone,” says Kit, pulling his boots on, “that demon speaks to me, still.”  
  
“You ought not to speak to demons,” says Will, who remains entirely, unabashedly naked, “they know their kin.”  
  
“Is it not Hell,” says Kit, his face shadowed in darkness, his voice gone hoarse, “to love you and have to keep those words behind the gate of my teeth, else we--”  
  
“You confess your love with Homer,” says Will, fond, “and then claim us to be damned. How very like you, Kit.”  
  
“Have you no answer?” says Kit, turning back to will, those cunning eyes wide and a different kind of naked.  
  
“I have many answers,” says Will, running his index finger along Kit’s jawline, “a lifetime’s worth. Which would you like first?”  
  
“The shortest,” says Kit, his voice hoarse again, and Will climbs onto his lap, nods against Kit’s cheekbone, nods and nods and nods.  
  


  
  
Will is not the only one in whom words burn; the fire desperate and driven and agony, sometimes, (always). Will has time. Will has many things, most of which he has not yet seen. Kit sees them all, stark in the burnished mirror of Will’s eyes. William has so much time. Oh, what Kit would  _give_. Oh, if only.  


  
  
  
Kit is leaning against the stage door when Will steps out into the cold London rain, his hair sodden wet and his hand on his belt, shaking more than just a little.  
  
“You, my friend,” says Will, smirking, “are rat-drunk, and more besides. However did you even stagger this far? Come, let us make our way to the closest bed, which, I do believe, is mine--”  
  
“ _I cannot read, and therefore wish all books were burnt_ ,” says Kit, his eyes distant, and Will laughs, says, “Quite an antic you are tonight, Kit. Come, you may ramble at me until your heart is contented, but I must insist on somewhere rather less  _wet_.”  
  
“I am as a hare trapped in the hunt,” says Kit, stepping forward, grabbing at Will’s shirt, his knuckles white with the exertion, “I run, and yet they follow me.”  
  
“Who follows you?” says Will, his brow furrowed, and Kit kisses Will’s mouth, whispers, “The words, William. The words.  _Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it._  Do you not see? Do you not see?”  
  
Will, (thankful for the darkness that may have just saved them both), slings his arm around Kit’s neck, says, soothing, “Well, a pox on  _that_. Come, let us homewards go and get you out of those wet boots, eh?”  
  
Kit nods, so his mouth does not betray him. He smiles when Will ruffles his hair and, thus, his mouth betrays him anyway.  


  
  
  
Kit wakes up with the taste of burning in his mouth, his face pressed against the naked expanse of Will’s back.  
  
“William,” he whispers, pressing his fingertips against the vertebrae of Will’s spine, “ _William_.”  
  
William wakes and murmurs, his eyes not open, “You were an ass this last night, Kit.”  
  
“Yes,” says Kit, glad that Will’s back is still turned, that he cannot see Kit blush.  
  
“More than a mere ‘yes’, my friend,” says Will, rolling over, his eyes guarded, “I knew you not. It was as if all that made up my Kit were gone, and I conversed with a stranger.”  
  
“But I am yet  _your_  Kit?” says Kit, and Will sighs, says, “Who am I to call you base? For we are all sinners, or else liars if ’tis denied. Yes, drunkard, you are  _my_  Kit, forever still.”  
  
“If I bed you rougher than a penny bawd, will I be further thus forgiven?” says Kit, but his eyes are naked with want and and truth and fear, so Will whispers, “You have much to prove to me, thus, prove.”  


  
  
  
Kit writes, and Will, too, one of demons and one of kings; for demons care not who writes them, and kings demand and expect to receive.  
  
“Your king is more a demon than my Mephistophilis,” mutters Kit, and Will smirks, says, “Well, if you say you know your demons intimately than I shall believe you well, Christopher.”  
  
“Not as intimately as I have known you,” says Kit, putting his quill down, an edge in his voice, and Will laughs, says, “There is little of you left to surprise me, Kit.”  
  
“Believe what you like,” says Kit, and drags Will out of his chair, manhandles him into his mattress, and hisses, “how shall I surprise you first?”  
  
“You could attempt silence,” says Will, snorting with laughter, and Kit grins, says, “We both know there is only ever one situation in which I am silent, do we not?”  
  
Will blushes, and manages, “I would hazard, from my learnings, that you are not even silent then.”  
  
“Perhaps  _you_  should be silent,” says Kit, his teeth grazing Will’s neck, and Will shudders, replies, “Perhaps. Is that what you would ask of me?”  
  
“Is that what you wish me to ask?” says Kit, and Will’s eyes narrow. He presses his knee up into Kit’s cock, and grins when Kit groans.  
  
“I would hazard, once more, that it is what  _you_  are fain to be granted,” says Will, his nose grazing Kit’s as Kit pants into his mouth, “and I feel generous this fine afternoon, so grant it I shall.”  
  
Will pushes Kit onto his back, pushes Kit’s breeches down and noses at the head of Kit’s cock.  
  
“You need not do this--” says Kit, reaching for Will’s hair, his voice already choked, and Will licks him long and hard, says, “I offer you nothing not freely given, Marlowe. I know silence is not your gift, but allow it to be mine for this short time.”  
  
“Short time?” says Kit, feigning indignation, but Will licks at him again, grinning, and as Kit’s head falls back he knows he is already beaten.  
  
Kit digs his fingers into Will’s hair like a dying man; his back arches and his thighs shake. His mouth opens and closes, and, it turns out, Kit is silent and Will is loud. In the end, Will is right, it is short.  
  
“You have good as pulled my hair from its roots,” says Will, wiping at his mouth, and Kit just stares at him with wide eyes, kisses him his mouth burns, muttering thanks with a silent tongue, Will rubbing against him until he shakes, until both their stomachs are wet and they lie back down, hands tangled in hair tangled in each other’s fingers, and Will presses a finger to Kit’s mouth, says, “ _So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse._ ”  
  
“Indeed,” says Kit, peppering kisses on Will’s shoulder, “tell to me a thing I do not know.”  
  
“ _But thou art all my art_ ,” says Will, his eyes shining, wet, and Kit laughs, kisses him, whispers in Will’s ear, “Now that, my friend, we both know not to be told true.”  


  
  
  
It is March and there is snow on the ground. A demon whispers to Kit and tells him how to lie to men; a king writes through Will, lies of a different kind, lies that ring true, that tell of the Tower and a grave that no one is ever going to find.  
  
There is something haunted in Kit, something hunted in his eyes.  
  
“Do not hide from me,” says Will, kissing Kit’s neck, their skin golden and shadow-striped in the light from a single candle.  
  
“I cannot hide from you,” says Kit, kissing Will so deeply it feels like drowning, “thus, I must.”  
  
Outside, a clock chimes, and it is April.

  
  
  
  
“You lack subtlety, as always, Shakespeare,” says a voice by the stage door, and Will grins, only a little wolflike, says, “Come to assassinate me, Ben? None could say this lacks the drama I associate with you always.”  
  
“Assassination suggests a man worthy of the effort,” says Ben Jonson, and Will laughs, says, “To what do I owe the displeasure? If you like not my plays, do not see them. I do not write them to make you, and you alone, suffer, even if you must persist in believing otherwise.”  
  
“Oh, I spoke not of the play,” says Ben, as Will’s face falls, “do see fit to remind Kit that he owes me money.”  
  
“Kit always owes you money, sir,” says Will, and Ben grins, says, “Aye. But what does he owe  _you_?”  
  
“Your heart on a platter, I do but hope,” mutters Will, but Ben, as he inevitably is, is already gone.  
  


  
  
“A theatre of your very own,” says Kit, in May, and Will blushes, says, “Perhaps. We shall see.”  
  
“You would seek to best me in each and every way,” says Kit, sitting down on the edge of the stage, his legs swinging free.  
  
“Of course,” says Will, struggling to straighten his cuffs, “I did not think you like me for my character.”  
  
Kit laughs, kicking his legs off the wood in staccato time, says, “It is as dissolute as mine, my friend. I may cast no stones in that arena.”  
  
Will sits down beside him, his cuffs abandoned, and mutters, “An arena. How apt.”  
  
“You can hear it, can you not?” says Kit, putting his hand Will’s thigh, “The roar of the crowd. The footsteps on the stage. Words from your quill performed for evermore.”  
  
Will shrugs, says, “Men like us are not what history is made of, Kit.”  
  
“I do believe you mean men like  _you_ ,” says Kit, and there it is, the whisper of  _Cambridge_  between them, and Will smiles, sad, and Kit laughs, says, “Do not fall into dull convention, William. Men such as you are  _precisely_  what history is made of.”  
  
“And men such as you?” says Will, and Kit spreads his arms, throws his head back, says, “We write the history, Will, and thus we make it.”  
  
“No,” says Will, drawing Kit in, forehead to forehead, “I do not believe you would consign yourself to be an agent so passive.”  
  
“Ah, men like  _me_ ,” says Kit, tracing the line of Will’s eyebrow with his fingertip, smiling, the twist of it wrong, “men like me die young.”  


  
  
  
Kit writes and Will sleeps. Will rolls over, his eyes shut, his shirt open at the neck, still and quiet and lovely, and Kit tears his eyes away, writes,  _Thinkest thou heaven is such a glorious thing? I tell thee, 'tis not half so fair as thou, or any man that breathes on earth_ , smiles.  


  
  
  
“You are afraid, but I know not of what,” says Will, steady and wary, as Kit’s eyes roam constantly to the tavern door, and Kit chuckles, says, “No, my friend. I am owed money, and the bastard who owes it has hidden from me these past three nights.”  
  
“Tell me,” says Will, low and gentle, and Kit laughs, says, “You write too much of intrigue, William. It has left your mind suspicious and dark.”  
  
“No,” says Will, as Kit’s eyes flicker to the door once more, “my suspicions only ever lie with you, Kit. They only ever lie with you.”  
  
“To speak of lying with--” says Kit, and Will shakes his head, says, “Distract me with clumsy words if you must, but do not think me foolish. At least grant me that.”  
  
“I would grant you everything,” whispers Kit, but it is already too late as Will smiles, sad, “Not even  _your_  words can stop time, Kit.”  
  
“Well, if the words of any man could,” says Kit, as they stand to leave, and Will tosses coin onto the table, says, “If any man’s could, but time is slave to no one, Marlowe.”  
  
Kit holds the door open for Will, says, winking although his eyes are red rimmed, “Aye, and less slave to me than any man,  _that_ , that I already know.”  


  
  
  
They fuck like dying men; like men doomed to battle in the morning.  
  
“You are a  _plague_ ,” says Will, tears streaming down his cheeks, “a plague I wish to hate, but cannot help but love.”  
  
“You are all I have ever loved on this earth, good William,” says Kit, kissing Will’s tears away, because fate is a heavy thing for a man to carry; and Kit has always known his, has always known how it was all going to end. He’s a playwright, after all.  
  
It is May 1593, and it is too late. It was always going to be too late.  
  


  
  
Kit goes out the door in the morning, kisses Will before he leaves, kisses him until neither of them can breathe, until they both come up gasping and hard and desperate.  
  
Kit goes out the door in the morning, and he never comes back.  


  
  
  
It’s Ben who tells him. It’s Ben who brushes off the rivalry the three of them shared, Ben who clutches at Will’s shoulders until he stops shaking; who catches him when he falls.  
  
“He did not deserve such a death,” says Will, with lips that are numb but not cold.  
  
“No man ever does,” says Ben, and Will finds, for the first time in his life, that his words have failed him.  
  
“This pain will never end,” says Ben, with the pitiless authority of one who has lost and can never turn back from that dark road, “but it will lessen, good William, take your trust in me, I beg of you.”  
  
“ _Good William_ ,” repeats Will, and finds that his lips are still numb.

  
  
  
  
Kit is buried in an unmarked grave, and Will’s hands shake for more than a month. Kit leaves a manuscript that will live forever and wounds on Will that will never heal.  
  
Ben is right, it never gets better.  


  
  
  
Fate is a heavy thing to carry, and Will Shakespeare carries a heavier one than most. Kit is dead, and Will writes. Will writes  _Macbeth_ , and  _Romeo and Juliet_ , and  _The Tempest_. Kit is dead, and Will writes _Julius Caesar_  and  _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_  and  _Othello_. Kit is dead, and Will writes  _Hamlet_. Kit is dead, and the ghosts of Will’s plays are many and varied. Kit is dead, and Will loves many but loves no one. Kit is dead, and love and ghosts are forever intertwined.  
  
Kit stays dead, and Will keeps writing. Fate is a heavy thing to carry, and, for once, Ben was wrong. It doesn’t lessen.  


  
  
  
“One would think I haunted you all your life, Will,” says Kit, with lazy grace, that damnable smirk still on. It is 1616, and Will’s hair is streaked with grey. Will lies in a bed that is not in London, where he never pressed Kit into the mattress. Will lies in a bed in which he never fell in love.  
  
“Did you not?” says Will, his voice breaking as Kit smirks wider, and, outside, the birds begin to sing.


End file.
